
CopyrigMH? /f^.J. 



COEflRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



ON THE SIDEWALK 



By 

ROLAND CORTHELL 




THE CORNHILL PUBLISHING COMPANY 

BOSTON, MASS. 



Mi 



0* 



Copyright 1921 

by 

THE CORNHILL PUBLISHING CO. 



£)CU654219 
DEC 17 1921 



THE PILGRIM PRESS 
BOSTON 



AA 



°l 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Unconquerable Soul 3 

A Gracious Salutation 5 

A Serpent in the Garden 7 

The Happy Pals 9 

Unexpected Treasure 11 

Needless Noise 13 

Heels 16 

The Giant 18 

Dignity on Four Feet 20 

The Waster 24 

A Deserted City 26 

The Man with a Grouch 29 

The Man with the Ecstatic Face 32 

Comrades 33 

A Thrifty American 35 

Hats 38 

Accepted at Last 41 

Now or Never . 43 

3X1 = 9 45 

"Hello" 48 

The Man with the Broken Heart .... 50 

Honest Boys 52 

The Traffic Cop 54 

Pure Gold 53 

Mr. Micawber 58 

One Peony 60 



ON THE SIDEWALK 



To 
MY WIFE 



PREFACE 

These little stories are mainly the simple record of 
people and incidents I have seen in my morning walks 
across the business section of one of our great cities. 
He who traverses the city streets with eyes on the 
pavement below or the sky above or anywhere else but 
on the people he meets, misses many a sight worth 
seeing, and fails to get acquainted with many a rare 
character. He is walking through an art gallery, 
crowded with living pictures. If he will only look 
at them he will see rare and splendid canvasses. 

R. C. 



THE UNCONQUERABLE SOUL 

Speaking of the strangers we meet in the street 
and who stand out from the crowd, there is a woman 
I pass very often whom I have named "The Uncon- 
querable Soul" — big and meaningful words — but 
none too good for her if I read her character 
aright. 

She is a little woman — a poor woman — a working 
woman — a foreigner I think, fifty-five or sixty years 
of age. She has suffered and struggled against a 
hard fate, I know — and the future is evidently a 
future of toil, and yet there shines from her face the 
light of a spirit within, whose flame is unquenchable. 
The strong winds of evil fortune only fan it into a 
brighter radiance. 

The thin lips — the straight mouth — the bright 
eye — the alert step — all tell their story of an uncon- 
querable soul. 

Disaster — sickness — poverty, even, may come, but 
I can't imagine that little face otherwise than calm 
and brave. 

How inspiring such a personality ! How it rebukes 
our discouragements and weaknesses ! How it says, 
"Be strong — strong to bear — strong to do — strong 
to resist." 

3 



On the Sidewalk 

When I look at this poor little woman, I think of 
the great words of Tennyson's Ulysses: 

"Though much is taken, much abides ; and though 
We are not now that strength which in old days 
Moved heaven and earth ; that which we are, we are, 
One equal temper of heroic hearts 
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 
To strive — to seek — to find and not to yield." 



A GRACIOUS SALUTATION 

The other afternoon I saw coming toward me a 
pleasant-faced lady leading by the hand the finest 
little chap you ever saw. He couldn't have been 
more than a year and a half old, had on a jaunty 
little cap and clothes to match, had a sweet, round, 
serious, little face, with great, beautiful brown eyes. 
He was indeed a little fellow to admire and love. He 
was prettier than any picture and I looked him full 
in the face as he passed, my heart full of happy 
thoughts at the sight of such a charming little man. 
He looked straight back at me and with the same 
serious look in his great eyes, gracefully saluted me 
with two or three gentle up-and-down motions of his 
little hand. I repaid him with a loving and appreci- 
ative smile, and was repaid with an answering smile 
from the proud and happy mother. Dear little fellow ! 
I have thought of him a score of times since, and 
shall again and again recall his recognition of one 
whom he happened to meet as he was commencing 
his journey through the great world where I most 
earnestly hope a thousand beautiful things and splen- 
did experiences await him. 

Could anything, after all, be more touching than 
a wave of the hand from a baby, just beginning his 

5 



On the Sidewalk 

voyage across life's sea to an older voyager whose 
shallop has sailed many a league? The little chil- 
dren ! Unchanged by all the turmoil and pain and 
perplexity and catastrophes of the world, as inno- 
cent and hopeful and confident today as they were 
in the ancient days when the world was new with its 
record of sin and sorrow unwritten. 

They are indeed the salt that preserves the race 
from becoming stale and hopeless. They are the 
stars that illumine the dark night of human life, the 
flowers that delight the eye, the treasures which 
enrich a hundred million homes and keep alive hope 
and sanity and courage in countless hearts. The 
little children are indeed the hope of the race. To 
them the old and weary world will pass the torch of 
endeavor and the problems of life and the burdens of 
labor and thought, and their brave young spirits will 
laugh at the responsibilities thus forced upon them 
and "carry on" till they in turn pass the burden to 
other fresh, young enthusiasts. 



A SERPENT IN THE GARDEN 

The great war is over, but is the world at peace? 
By no means. They say there are twenty-two little 
wars in Europe now, and new ones soon to burst 
their shells. I don't mean fire shells which will burst, 
but come out of their shells the way chickens do. 
And have you not noticed the universal unrest and 
abnormal discontent throughout our own country? 
Our morale is deteriorating. There is no mistake 
about it. A certain irritability, a quarrelsomeness, 
an ungovernable and unreasonable cynicism, seem to 
have seized on the hearts of the people as I write. 

Most of us go around with a chip on our shoulders. 
In a word, we are ready for a "scrap." What has 
"come over us?" Is it the aftermath of the war? 
I doubt it. After people have fought four years they 
ought to be unusually docile. No ! The explanation 
is nearer home than that. The cause of this "letting 
down" in our dispositions is found in ten thousand 
places in our towns and cities, and always where 
people "most do congregate." The cause, the sole 
cause, is the penny-in-the-slot machine. 

To illustrate, only yesterday a good-looking, 
pleasant-faced, mild-mannered, well-dressed man of 
forty or forty-five approached one of the omnipresent 

7 



On the Sidewalk 

receptacles of chocolate, chewing gum, etc., dropped 
a penny into the slot, pushed the plunger, felt for 
the dainty package, didn't find it, pushed again, and 
in an instant that quiet, unassuming gentleman was 
transformed into a raging Bolshevist. Charged with 
righteous indignation and uncontrollable disgust, he 

fairly shouted, "That's gone to ." And then he 

began a shaking of the exasperating machine which 
would have meant its complete destruction had it not 
been built like a sky-scraper, doubtless to withstand 
just such anticipated onslaughts. As I walked away 
from him slowly for fifty or sixty feet he was still 
rattling the dry bones of the heartless contrivance, 
vainly, I fear, seeking to get his money back. 

Did I blame him? Not in the least. I really felt 
like helping him. I knew exactly how he felt. Who 
doesn't? Somebody ought to bring a suit for dam- 
ages against the soulless corporation that owns these 
demoniacal contrivances, placing the damages at 
$1000, made up as follows: 

Pecuniary loss $ 0.01 

Mental distress 499.99 

Irreparable injury to disposition 500.00 

Total $1000.00*^ 

If I were the judge, he would win the case. 



THE HAPPY PALS 

On my morning walks across the city it is a great 
experience to meet the Happy Pals. 

They are so full of vitality — so congenial — so 
sociable — so running over with the fine joy of whole- 
some comradeship, that one glance at them sets 
one's nerves tingling with new courage and adven- 
ture. They never cross the city alone, I judge, and 
I have never seen either with anyone but the other. 
They are inseparable. I wonder how long this rare 
friendship has been going on. Neither appear to be 
less than thirty years of age. 

He is a fine-looking fellow, always smooth-shaven, 
with a pleasant eye, a mouth that speaks of strength 
as well as tenderness, a man to tie to. She is an 
attractive woman, not because of her beauty, but 
because of her tingling vitality, expressing itself in 
every step, every movement of head or hand, in the 
keen eye and the vivacious speech. She does the 
bulk of the talking. He is an ideal listener. I have 
never passed them but once when they were not 
talking. It was so strange, almost abnormal, that 
they were both silent that I felt a distinct shock 
of alarm. But I am sure that before many seconds 

9 



On the Sidewalk 

had passed, she had ended the unaccustomed break 
in their morning chat. 

What is the relationship back of this charming 
comradeship? Are they man and wife — brother and 
sister — lovers — or just pals? Are they united by 
any bonds save those of a whole-hearted, natural, 
beautiful friendship? Is not such a friendship 
possible? 

If I never see them again, I shall never forget them. 
I can see them as I write coming toward me — shoul- 
der touching shoulder — walking with firm, quick 
steps — every movement telling its story of abundant 
mental and physical life — each satisfied with the 
other — both cheerful — hopeful — energetic — content. 
They have preached to me a sermon on the blessings 
of pure friendship. What is there finer or more 
worth while in the whole world? 



10 



UNEXPECTED TREASURE 

I took a little walk after lunch the other noon and, 
as usual, kept both eyes open for interesting people 
and incidents. I was walking through a poor, obscure 
street, where one naturally expects to see the grays 
and drabs of life, when two girls thirteen or fourteen 
years old turned the corner of a street yet more ob- 
scure. They were dressed in white, with wide red turn- 
over collars, and looked very natty, indeed. Glancing 
at their faces, imagine my surprise and delight to see 
before me a face which instantly recalled that famous 
picture of Queen Louise of Prussia, idolized by her 
people, not only for her marvelous beauty, but for 
her gentleness, her nobility and her kindness. Usu- 
ally reproduced as a portrait only, the original pic- 
ture depicts her descending a palace stairway. This 
young girl had the same lovely contour of features, 
the same wonderful eyes, the same sweet strong 
mouth, the same irresistible oharm, the same com- 
pelling beauty. 

I have been startled before to see girls tastefully 
dressed, with intelligent, attractive faces, emerge from 
homes where one would not expect such denizens. 
I am not sure that in a beauty contest the slums might 
not equal, if not outdo, the aristocratic quarter. 

11 



On the Sidewalk 

The exit of these stylishly dressed girls from 
obscure and poor homes is only another case of the 
dreary cocoon and the gorgeous moth, the forbid- 
ding ooze of the stagnant pool and the exquisite pond 
lily that floats upon its surface. It's not wise to 
decide too hastily what's behind the forlorn doors 
of those humble homes. They may shelter unex- 
pected treasure. 



12 



NEEDLESS NOISE 

The unavoidable noises of civilization are multi- 
tudinous and nerve-racking. There are streets in 
Boston where the din of passing traffic is tremendous. 
How business is transacted in the stores of such 
streets is a mystery. Conversation would seem to be 
impossible. How a customer makes known his wants, 
I can't for the life of me, see. 

What a din there is ! Rattling, bumping, thump- 
ing street cars, carts, trucks, drays and autos all 
contributing their share of commotion to the agi- 
tated air. Shrieks, toots, hoots, groans, growls, 
barks, howls, whistles, squawks, honks, screeches, 
cackles, squeals, grunts and yells of auto horns, not 
to mention many lesser noises, all combine to make 
a pandemonium of sound fitted to send the average 
man for rest to the primeval forest or a lofty hilltop. 

But there is one thing worse than this necessary 
racket of modern life, and that is the needless noises 
for which there is no excuse. They aggravate the 
sensitive soul as nothing else can, first, because they 
are ear-splitting and, second, because there is no 
excuse for them. They would seem to be the work of 
some malicious demon, who is seeking to ruin the 
race. The other day, I sat for fifteen minutes in the 

13 



On the Sidewalk 

waiting-room of a suburban car line. Hundreds of 
people enter and leave it every day. A screen door 
kept out some of the flies. This door had a spring 
of tremendous power. Each time the door was used 
that demoniacal spring slammed it with a crash which 
made me jump from my seat. It was terrible. And 
yet from morning till night, day in and day out, 
Sundays and holidays included, all summer long that 
infernal slamming will doubtless continue. Now, for 
the modest sum of ten or fifteen cents a nice little 
rubber device can be purchased, which any boy could 
put in place in three minutes, which would make the 
shutting of that door a pleasant thing to contem- 
plate. The rubber receives the full shock quietly 
and then permits the door to find its place noiselessly. 
But there is something worse even than this and 
that is the costly and efficient door-check working by 
compressed air, which is not properly adjusted. 
Steam railroad stations seem to be the worse offend- 
ers. I have been in a station where the great doors 
shut with a deafening crash, simply because the little 
adjusting screw needed a turn to right or left. 
Awhile ago I was in a station where there was such 
an exasperating condition. Nobody was in sight. 
I stealthily made my way to the seat almost under 
the check, mounted the seat, gave the little screw a 
twist, opened the door and let it go back. Marvelous 
change ! It moved quickly until nearly closed, then 
hesitated and slowly and gently completed its jour- 

14 



Needless Noise 

ney, with a pleasant little click as the latch found 
its resting-place. Thus easily and quickly had that 
station been transformed from purgatory to para- 
dise. A month later I happened in the same station 
and that lovely check was still shutting the door as 
gently as though fearing to disturb a sleeping child. 



15 



HEELS 

As a rule, I mean to live up to Edward Everett 
Hale's great motto: 

"Look up, and not down, 
Look forward and not back, 
Look out and not in, and 
Lend a hand." 

But yesterday morning, in my walk across the 
city, I looked down and not up. I read of a man 
who found one day a silver dollar on the sidewalk 
and the rest of his life looked down, hoping to find 
another, but I wasn't imitating him. No ! I was 
looking at heels. I've looked at heads every morning 
for a year, and thought, for a change, I'd go to the 
other extreme, and well was I repaid for my enter- 
prise. But bear in mind, I wasn't looking at men's 
heels. They are all alike, — low, broad, substantial, 
comfortable. There are no exceptions. But ladies' 
heels are in a different category. 

A contest is running in a daily paper as I write 
in which the participants answer the question, "Is 
woman inferior to man?" I have read a dozen of 
these really able and often brilliant little essays, but 

16 



Heels 

marvel that nobody has seized upon an everyday 
exhibition of woman's superiority, physically, men- 
tally and morally, as proved by the heels of her boots 
and shoes. 

When I was a nimble boy I used to walk on stilts. 
I found it even then a most precarious mode of loco- 
motion. But I saw women walking yesterday morn- 
ing on fully as delicate and treacherous supports, 
viz. : those amazing French heels, shaped like an hour- 
glass, but with the base shrunk to the size of a dime. 
Now to be able to walk at all on heels like these 
requires three things — courage, brains and skill. 
Does man possess them in sufficient degree for this 
supreme test? Hardly. You might crowd the shoe 
store windows of Boston with men's boots with 
French heels and never sell a pair. No mere man 
has the physical courage to attempt perambulation 
thus handicapped. And had he the courage, he 
hasn't the skill to perform the feat gracefully and 
safely, nor the brains to tell him how to do it. No ! 
Thrice no ! The French heel. proves man's inferiority 
to the weaker (?) sex in the whole realm of existence. 



17 



THE GIANT 

There's no use denying it — bigness is impressive. 
The Himalayas — the ocean — the starry heavens owe 
much of their sublimity to their Titanic bigness. A 
big man — other things being equal — has a distinct 
advantage over a little one. I suppose every little 
man who ever lived wished he was tall and large. 
I doubt if any six-footer ever wished he had been 
five feet or even five feet and eleven inches. 

Why, even the mighty Napoleon, it is said, never 
was reconciled to the fact that he was diminutive 
and doubtless envied every big man he met. And I'll 
wager you that the doughty Lloyd George even, with 
his sublime self-reliance and self-confidence, often 
wishes he were a few inches taller. As to small women 
I am not quite so confident. 

It is well known that the petite style of feminine 
beauty is attractive to many men — even large men — 
on the principle, I suppose, that small packages are 
often the most valuable, and yet I doubt if you can 
find any diminutive beauty — no matter how bewitch- 
ingly beautiful — who does not envy her tall and 
stately sisters who sweep through the world like 
queens. By the way, can you think of a queen as 
little? I can't. 

18 



The Giant 

I'm led to these reflections by the fact that nearly 
every morning I meet in my walk to my office a man 
so tall and large that I have named him "The Giant." 
He must be six feet two or three inches — with weight 
in proportion. Not an ounce too much or too little 
— erect, energetic — a great, handsome, imposing 
giant of a man. 

It is worth a long walk to meet him. He is always 
with some friend, always chatting and smiling, always 
swinging along with an ease and energy that marks 
the gait of the man who is "fit." I think he is a busi- 
ness man. I can't think of him as a lawyer — or 
banker, even. 

I am sure he handles some big business and handles 
it, I'll warrant you, with the ease, the celerity, the 
accuracy, the sound judgment with which any of us 
perform our simple daily tasks. He looks like a man 
that would be not only fair with his employees, but 
considerate and even generous. 

I don't believe he will have any strikes to bother 
him. He is big — physically, mentally, and, shall I 
say, socially. To him a man's a man, be he the jani- 
tor or a bank president. A big body, a big mind, a 
big soul — there's a combination that is irresistible. 
I like to meet my giant. I hope I'll see him this 
morning. 



19 



DIGNITY ON FOUR FEET 

In my diurnal journeys across the city my 
thoughts are mainly absorbed by study of the faces, 
physiques, dress and gait of the human beings I 
meet — several thousand each morning, I imagine. 
Some morning I'm going to count them and settle this 
question of numbers. But my mind is never too occu- 
pied to observe a certain four-footed lady who 
resides in a cigar store I pass, provided she is tak- 
ing her morning survey of the world in front of 
the open doorway of the tobacco emporium above 
mentioned. 

The fact is, I love cats. I'm not ashamed to 
declare it ; for, so doing, I find myself enrolled in a 
shining company of the great, whose affection has 
been lavished on favored specimens of the genus Felis 
— family Felidae. In the impressive category of cat- 
lovers I find such names as Mohammed, Petrarch, 
Chateaubriand, Wolsey, Montaigne, Victor Hugo, 
Cowper, Sir Walter Scott and Dr. Johnson. I 
need mention only one of the living admirers of 
pussy, viz., Agnes Repplier, the famous essay- 
ist, whose charming book, "The Fireside Sphinx," 
should make every cat in Christendom her loyal 
friend. 

20 



Dignity on Four Feet 

Worshipped the Cat 

Had I lived in the great days of Ancient Egypt, 
I'm sure I should have worshipped the cat as did all 
the rest of that mighty empire. Had my span of 
life been allotted me in the twilight years of the dark 
ages, I'm sure I would not have hated and persecuted 
the cat as the chosen emissary of the devil as did the 
common run of superstitious humanity in that long 
and dismal epoch. But born under the bright skies 
of a noble civilization, in the company of the humane, 
the tender-hearted, the discerning, I am proud to be 
not only the friend but the ardent admirer of the 
modern pussy. 

The cigar dealer's cat is a beauty — a pure Maltese, 
not even wearing a white j abot or white-toed slippers. 
Last summer I fell in love with her the first morning 
my eyes lighted upon her, sitting quietly just back 
from the inner edge of the sidewalk, looking not with 
curiosity, but with a certain dainty aloofness at the 
passing procession of two-legged creatures. I 
stopped, stooped and introduced myself with a gentle 
pat on her head. She shrank with a certain offended 
dignity from this unasked familiarity, and then 
resumed her stately posture of calm observation. As 
the days passed I found myself wondering each morn- 
ing if she would be in her accustomed place, and 
nearly every morning, to my renewed pleasure. I 
found her there — always dainty in appearance, digni- 
fied in bearing and reserved in manner. 

21 



On the Sidewalk 

A hundred times through the hot summer and the 
golden autumn she received my morning salutation, 
but always with that slight but expressive shrinking. 
She seemed to say, "Really, sir, your continued 
unsought familiarity is somewhat, though not unbear- 
ably, offensive to me, and if it gives you any appre- 
ciable pleasure, I shall endure it with the calm 
resignation which a proper sympathy for the strange 
customs of your species naturally engenders. As to 
reciprocating the affection which your action, words 
and tones express, that is out of the question. I may 
respect you, but anything beyond that is impossible." 

In Her Old Place 

As the cold days of the late fall came, followed by 
those of winter, I missed this self-centred lady from 
her usual place, but once or twice caught glimpses 
of her pretty form and beautiful robe of fur as she 
sat still calmly and quietly on the marble floor of her 
master's store. But yesterday morning, to my great 
joy, my eyes were greeted as I walked toward her 
home with the charming picture of the dainty Mal- 
tese pussy sitting in her old place by the sidewalk. 

I was impelled to lift her from the tessellated floor 
and give her an affectionate caress, but her quiet 
aloofness restrained me as effectually as would the 
hand of a majestic policeman. I only gave expres- 
sion to my admiration and affection with a very, very 
gentle pat ! But, alas ! there was neither answering 

22 



Dignity on Four Feet 

smile nor appreciative movement of her dainty body. 
Nevertheless, my adoration is unabated and I look 
forward this very morning as I write these lines to 
my brief morning salutation an hour hence. 



23 



THE WASTER 

If there is any one thing today worse than profit- 
eering, than extravagance, than chronic discontent, 
than any other of the harpies that prey upon our 
peace and prosperity, that thing is waste. As one 
has said: "With more feet than shoes, more heads 
than hats, more backs than coats, more people than 
houses, more mouths than food," that anybody 
should deliberately waste anything is shocking, and 
shows a temper so thoughtless, a sympathy so petri- 
fied, a civic spirit so utterly dead, a mind so unfitted 
for life and its duties as to discourage the most 
ardent optimist. 

I saw an exhibition of this shameless spirit of waste 
the other day that recurs to my mind again and 
again. A man was putting upon the sidewalk ash cans 
to be removed by the city. He was employed by a 
great and widely known corporation. I passed these 
cans and looked into them. What I saw shocked me. 
I saw a few ashes, but more unburned coal, great, 
glistening "black diamonds," utterly unscorched 
even, as big as a large teacup, not even half-buried 
in the few ashes around them. If the conditions on 
the surface continued to the bottom each can con- 
tained many hodfuls of coal worth fifteen dollars 
a ton. 

24 



The Waster 

I called the man's attention to this criminal waste, 
and he replied that three men were looking after the 
fires, and that he had nothing to do but wheel out 
what they prepared for him. They were evidently 
too dainty or too lazy or too utterly indifferent even 
to pick out the costly unburned fuel, or do the rules 
of the union forbid a fireman thus to soil his hands? 
At any rate, if all the ashes that come from the stoves 
and heaters of this great business enterprise are 
accompanied by a similar proportion of costly 
unburned fuel the ag^re^ate daily waste must be 
startling in its magnitude. There are laws against 
most everything nowadays. Is there one against 
waste ? 



25 



A DESERTED CITY 

The difference between the business section of the 
city Saturday morning and Sunday morning is that 
between purgatory and paradise — pandemonium and 
peace. 

Such a walk any week-day morning is a journey 
through "confusion worse confounded" ; rattling elec- 
trics, rumbling drays, shrieking autos, hurrying 
throngs, combine to startle the ear, shock the eye and 
lacerate the spirit. How different Sunday morning, 
when "all the air a solemn stillness holds." The 
streets, broader apparently than usual, are deserted. 
In the distance a lone pedestrian may perhaps be seen 
moving slowly as though in deep meditation. The 
massive buildings, so quiet in their Sabbath repose, 
calm the spirit of the wanderer at their feet. The 
transformation in twenty-four hours is tremendous. 
One can hardly believe it. I felt a strange and inde- 
scribable peace as if all the world were tranquilly 
moving toward its final destiny like a planet in its 
orbit. There was no jar, no strife, no eager haste, 
no wars and rumors of wars. There was instead, a 
soul-satisfying peace. 

In a walk as set forth above, I met an occasional 
man, quietly making his way to his destination, as 

26 



A Deserted City 

was I. I saw not a single woman or child. One man 
was leisurely studying the contents of a store win- 
dow ; five sleepy shoe polishers lounged in their place 
of business, while the sixth of their number gently 
rubbed the shoes of a patron who nodded in the com- 
fortable armchair provided for customers ; two repre- 
sentatives of the P. W. D. slowly, almost reverently, 

filled a hole in F street, two United States mail 

autos wound their way to the railroad stations ; two 
Armstrong Express trucks slowly moved along, piled 
high with travellers' trunks ; two or three empty 
taxis, out too early for even the proverbially doomed 
early worm, pursued their profitless way; a little 
flock of not over-hungry or over-hurrying doves 
mechanically picked up a few stray oats left over 
from Saturday's banquet; three English sparrows, 
too sleepy to quarrel, hopped listlessly in the gutter. 
Animal life was almost entirely absent. Not a horse- 
drawn vehicle met my eye, not a dog was seen or 
heard. I saw one solitary electric car with four or 
five people huddled in one corner as though seeking 
human companionship in the almost oppressive 
silence. One lone pussy, locked for thirty-six hours 
in her home, a fish market, explored the great empty 
window enclosure and expressed her desire for human 
companionship by rubbing, with arched back, against 
the great plate-glass window as I knocked upon it to 
gain her attention. 

Such a walk on such a morning is a delight. The 
27 



On the Sidewalk 

deserted streets, the locked doors, the drawn shades, 
the great silent business blocks, the quiet so welcome 
after a week of turmoil, the brooding peace, albeit 
tinged with the suggestion of sadness, conspire tq 
uplift and bless the spirit like a gracious benediction. 



28 



THE MAN WITH A GROUCH 

Among the myriad mysteries that crowd the uni- 
verse, there are three that rank with the greatest. 
They are: 

The human intellect, 

The human soul, 

The human face; 

and the last is by no means the least. 

This mystery of the human face is twofold: 
First — Given one brow, two eyes, one nose, two 
cheeks, one mouth and one chin — the stupendous con- 
tract is to produce, with variations of the above, say 
fifteen hundred million faces, no two of which shall 
be alike; in fact, they must be so unlike that a man 
may, as a rule, instantly recognize a friend whom he 
hasn't seen for years, and may gaze into a crowd of 
thousands and know that he has never seen one of 
them before; and 

Second, and more marvelous yet, each face must 
be capable of expressing by a slight mobility of the 
features named, every emotion of which the human 
soul is susceptible — anger, fear, love, hate, determi- 
nation, curiosity, indecision, reluctance, disappoint- 

29 



On the Sidewalk 

ment, joy, sorrow, despair, indifference; in fact, 
the Whole range of variation, up and down the 
gamut of human emotion. And this bewildering 
desideratum the Great Master Workman easily 
accomplishes. 

The above reflections were aroused in my mind the 
other morning when I passed a man on the sidewalk 
whose thoughts were as plainly written on his face 
as the wares of a sandwich man upon his back. He 
bad a grouch, and he had it bad. His thoughts were 
really blasphemous. I must soften them down a good 
deal before the great censor, public taste, will tolerate 
them on the printed page. 

In polite language, he was saying to himself : "This 
world is one condemned failure. I return no thanks 
to any power that I was ever born. The whole thing 
is a fiasco. I could make a better world myself. 
'People!' Bah! I've no use for them. I hate the 
sight of a man, woman or child. Confound them! 
What's going to become of the world, anyhow? If 
it isn't going to the dogs heels over head, I'm a bigger 
fool than I think I am. If a primary school couldn't 
run things better than they are being run, I'd throw 
the whole lot off the wharf in one big bag." 

And so he goes on his way, a man forty years old, 
fairly well-dressed, fairly well-nourished, fairly good- 
looking, but going through life chewing eternally a 
miserable, bitter grouch, seeing neither the birds, nor 
the flowers, nor little children, except to curse them, 

30 



The Man with a Grouch 

nor the floating clouds, nor the gorgeous sun, nor 
the shining stars, nor anything else sweet, or beauti- 
ful, or sublime. 

Verily, were we all like him the world would be a 
failure. 



31 



THE MAN WITH THE ECSTATIC FACE 

I have met a man twice lately — so marked in his 
personality that he certainly deserves a place in my 
picture gallery of unforgettable people. 

Is there such a thing as noiseless laughter? If so, 
that term describes the radiant happiness that beams 
from this man's face. I doubted the accuracy of my 
own vision when I looked at him. I have never seen 
such a face. If a hundred trooping memories — and 
aspirations — and expectations — each with its airy 
burden of joy were all together thronging his brain, 
he could not have looked happier — no ! happier 
doesn't express my thought — hilarious comes nearer 
my meaning. Possibly jubilant or ecstatic comes 
nearer yet. Such a face is an inspiration, except that 
such a riot of delight seems so unattainable, that one 
looks on in wonder as he might at some glorified 
denizen of some other world than this. 

I would sacrifice much to know this man's thoughts 
as he passed me this morning. How near I was to 
him ; and yet what unbridged and unbridgeable spaces 
separated us. 

To feel as happy as this man looks seems an impos- 
sible experience. I don't expect it. If I could only 
know this ecstatic gentleman's past, present and 
future, I should be satisfied. 

32 



COMRADES 

Did it ever occur to you that it isn't so much 
individuals as the relation between them that makes 
the world so interesting? 

Adam alone in Eden is a gentleman who excites, 
to some extent, our curiosity and study, but Adam 
and Eve, living together in Paradise, studying, lov- 
ing, helping, entertaining each other, are not simply 
doubly, but a hundred times more interesting. So 
men and women and children to-day, observed as 
single entities, appeal to us more or less, but when 
they come into the intimate relationship of parent 
and child, man and maid, husband and wife, brother 
and sister, teacher and scholar, physician and patient, 
friend and friend, even lawyer and client and mer- 
chant and customer, then life takes on the richer and 
deeper meaning. These thoughts came to me the 
other morning as I was meandering across the city. 

I met a man and a boy, neither of whom, had I met 
separately, would have claimed hardly a glance from 
me. But together, they gave me a pleasure which I 
love to recall. I felt in an instant, as they passed 
me, that they were father and son. He was, per- 
haps, thirty-five years old and the son about thirteen. 
Neatly dressed and with a satchel, I'm sure they were 

33 



On the Sidewalk 

going somewhere in particular and were going to have 
an "awful" good time. In fact, they were having it 
already. But it was their beautiful comradeship that 
captured me. 

The boy's smile of love, trust and respect was 
matched by the father's look of affection, sympathy 
and confidence. They were just as much chums as 
any two boys could be. That boy would rather be 
at home evenings with that father than to go to the 
movies; or perhaps his highest joy is to go to the 
movies with him. What a sermon such a father 
preaches to the parent who hasn't time to get 
acquainted with his son. How secure the future of 
such a favored youngster! 



31 



A THRIFTY AMERICAN 

This morning a well-dressed, good-looking gentle- 
man, fifty or fifty-five years old, evidently a native 
New Englander, was walking directly in front of me. 
He suddenly stopped, picked from the sidewalk a 
piece of ordinary twine five or six feet long, carefully 
untied a knot in it, wound it up neatly and put it in 
his satchel. I felt like taking off my hat to him and 
saying, "That act on your part gives me pleasure. 
It is refreshing to see a man who is not ashamed to 
stoop in order to save, — a man to whom waste is evi- 
dently an abomination and who can't endure to see 
anything of any value whatever go unused." 

We Americans have the undesirable reputation of 
being the most wasteful people on earth. Waste is 
shameful. Were I worth a score of millions I should 
be ashamed to deliberately waste a cent. Waste 
somehow means the fruitage of a base ingratitude. 
God, in his goodness, gives us priceless blessings, often 
in abundance. To fail to make the most of these 
treasures seems to indicate a want of appreciation 
not only of the gift but of the giver. 

How better can a giver judge of the character of 
the recipient of his gift and especially of the quality 

35 



On the Sidewalk 

of his friendship than by noticing how he treats his 
gift. Indeed, a gift, a real one, is in a sense an outgo 
of the personality of the giver ; is a part of his best 
self, and if appreciated, will be treated with a love, 
a gratitude and a consideration such as the best men 
accord their friends. 

Speaking of twine, I shall never forget the exhibi- 
tion of wastefulness I years ago saw in one of our 
great department stores. At one counter a young 
fellow tied up a bundle for me. I watched him as he 
encircled the package with the beautiful, strong, 
expensive twine, and noticed that through a careless 
miscalculation he had left two long ends after the 
knot was tied. These useless ends he nonchalantly 
snipped off with his scissors and they fell to the floor. 
Glancing down, I was shocked to see this careless, 
unfaithful youth literally wading about in a heap of 
similar superfluous ends which had accumulated that 
morning in a few short hours. Perhaps if it had 
been his twine he would have used a little common 
sense and avoided the senseless waste. I have no 
doubt he would. But, no ! It was the company's 
twine. It cost him nothing, and so he cared no more 
to save it than though it had been pebbles from the 
street. It was disgraceful. I have always regretted 
that I had not preached to him a short sermon on 
wastefulness and on fidelity and loyalty which he 
would have remembered to his dying day, or at least 
that I did not report him to his superior, who, if he 

36 



A Thrifty American 

felt as I did, would have discharged him on the 
spot. 

Any man or woman, or boy or girl, who will deliber- 
ately throw away that which has value deserves some 
day to beg for bread. 



37 



HATS 

Man's head is the house in which lives that most 
mysterious and most majestic of all entities, the 
human mind. The study of that mind and the revela- 
tion of it as depicted on the human face has fasci- 
nated all peoples in all ages, but the face is only the 
facade of the head, the temple of the spirit. The 
head's the thing. It's only a short step from the head 
to the hat which covers and protects it. I've studied 
heads until I'm tired and have turned to hats for a 
refreshing change. 

There are two kinds of hats, men's hats and 
women's hats. The subdivisions of the former are 
three, viz. : Derbys, soft felts and stiff straws, these 
three and no more. There used to be a fourth, the 
imposing, glossy "stove-pipe," but that can be found 
now only in museums. Three kinds of hats to meet 
the individual idiosyncrasies of 20,000,000 or 30,- 
000,000 men doesn't seem excessive. It is certainly 
monotonous. 

This very morning walking across the city, I met 
999 men with straw hats upon as many heads. Of 
these one was a Panama, two were soft straws and 
996 were stiff straws, rigid as a German helmet, and 
each was like all the rest. Fat men and lean men, 

38 



Hats 

black men and white men, tall men and short men, 
old men and young men — all could, had they worn 
the same size, have exchanged head coverings and 
nobody been the wiser or handsomer. 

But ladies' hats are a different proposition. I met 
1437 women this morning and there were not two 
hats that resembled each other in the remotest degree. 
Every hat seemed to have grown from the head of 
its owner and had a personality as real as that of 
the lady under it. I marvel at the resources of the 
human kind that can produce 20,000,000 or 30,- 
000,000 hats and no two alike. There's something 
uncanny and superhuman about it. Compare the lot 
of the designer of men's hats with that of him or her 
who creates the multitudinous differences in women's 
headgear. 

The former has simply to decide to have the brim 
or crown an eighth of an inch narrower or wider, 
higher or lower, than last year and he can immedi- 
ately go on a vacation. But the latter! My brain 
reels as I contemplate the contract assumed. What 
mortal mind is equal to it? From what boundless 
reservoir of ideas is this limitless variety of shapes 
in straw secured? What objects in earth, or air, or 
ocean depths suggest these strange, artistic contriv- 
ances which rest so jauntily and becomingly upon 
the heads of these myriads of attractive girls and 
ladies ? 

But to my mind the most amazing thing of all is 
39 



On the Sidewalk 

that any woman can make up her mind which one of 
these unnumbered shapes and styles to choose. A mar- 
vellous instinct or superhuman reasoning power 
enables her to waste no time in making the fateful 
choice. She sees the right hat at once, buys it, wears 
it, likes it, looks pretty in it and possibly thanks 
Providence she isn't compelled, like men, to wear a 
hat like 30,000,000 other people. 



40 



ACCEPTED AT LAST 

Under the title "Dignity on Four Feet" I told the 
story of my love for a beautiful Maltese Pussy, whose 
home is a certain well known cigar store. I related 
my vain attempts, renewed morning after morning 
and month after month, to win her affection. Only a 
quiet, persistent and unvarying aloofness rewarded 
my advances. A gentle movement of the head away 
from me as I softly patted it, always discouraged 
more decisive exhibitions of my passion. Yet she 
was so pretty and dainty and withal so lovable that 
I could not refrain from the exhibition of an affection 
which I felt to be hopeless so far as any response in 
kind was concerned. Imagine my joy then the other 
morning when softly stroking her pretty robe of fur, 
she gently but perceptibly moved her head toward me. 

No lover in real life ever felt a keener and more 
delightful thrill of happiness when, for the first time, 
he sees some fleeting but convincing evidence that he 
is loved, than did I as this pretty four-footed lady 
expressed a certain pleasure in my advances and a 
certain reciprocation of my affection. I can see her 
now, as I write, sitting so gracefully on the tessel- 
lated floor by the sidewalk, with an endless succession 
of human beings passing so near to her and yet over- 

41 



On the Sidewalk 

looked entirely in her quiet beauty by ninety-nine in 
a hundred of them, as she watches with subdued 
interest these towering monsters of a superior (?) 
race, who are not even aware of her existence, much 
less of her beautiful home-loving spirit, her dainti- 
ness, her affection, her gentle manners and tranquil 
daily life. 



42 



NOW OR NEVER 

On the morning of one of the last days of the 

liquor traffic in our country, I saw a man on E 

street, at 7 : 30 o'clock, who arrested not only my 
attention but that of other passers-by. He sat on 
a low stone step before a door not yet open for busi- 
ness, sound asleep. Poorly dressed, his face hidden 
by his hand as his elbow rested on his knee, with 
bowed head and limp body and befuddled mind, at 
the hour when he should have been at work, alone and 
shameless, he told the onlooker the story of his weak- 
ness and unmanliness. 

Where had he spent the night? Where was his 
home? Were wife and children anxiously waiting 
the return of the husband and father? How would 
he spend the day when awake and facing the realities 
of existence? A tremendous temptation must have 
assailed the drunkard in those last, fleeting, fateful 
days of June, the temptation to make the most of 
what seemed like the last chance to gratify the appe- 
tite for alcohol ! It was a case of now or never. The 
man who with that appetite as he saw the stern fea- 
tures of Prohibition coming nearer and nearer could 
hold himself to his regular allowance of liquor, must 
have had will enough to tread the appetite under his 

43 



On the Sidewalk 

feet if he wished it. It may be that our friend on the 
stone step, with locked saloon doors just ahead, had 
yielded to this last temptation and since Tuesday, 
July 1, forced to be a sober man, is resolutely walking 
the path of sobriety and will yet become a useful 
citizen. 

It has come to my mind that in those expiring 
days of the liquor business, it was the rich man who 
deserved the deepest sympathy of us all, the rich man 
accustomed to the habitual use of intoxicating liquor. 
To him must have come the powerful temptation to 
make provision for the approaching years of dryness, 
to take time by the forelock and put in his cellar a 
supply of bottled or barrelled "goods" sufficient for 
many, many years. In those last days the poor man 
had a distinct advantage over the rich man. The 
former could indulge a dangerous appetite for only 
a day, the latter could pander to it for a lifetime. 
His riches might thus become his undoing. If ever 
"Blessed be nothing" was sound philosophy, it was in 
those "rare" days in June. 



44 



3X1 = 9 

An up-to-date automobile is a thing to admire. 
Its solidity, its graceful lines, its shining surface, its 
roominess, its evident comfort, its hidden and mys- 
terious power, its marvelous swiftness of motion — all 
combine to awaken wonder and admiration. 

But there is another force, not so swift and not so 
strong, but possessing qualities which the self-pro- 
pelled vehicle can never possess — a thing of greater 
beauty and infinitely finer workmanship, a thing 
throbbing with life, a thing of intelligence and even 
affection, and just as responsive to man's bidding, 
which no machine of man's construction, marvelous 
as it may be, can ever supplant. You know what I 
am thinking of — the horse. Man made the automo- 
bile. God made the horse. Is there a finer sight on 
our city streets than a great, handsome, well- 
groomed, clean-limbed, well-nourished horse, faith- 
fully, steadily and cheerfully pulling its great load, 
responsive to the slightest wish of its master, the 
driver? What the picture is to the landscape itself, 
what the cold statue is to the living man, what the 
written word is to the thrilling tones of the spoken 
utterance, what the body is to the spirit — so is the 

45 



On the Sidewalk 

machine of inanimate wood and iron to the quivering, 
breathing, living animal. 

One beautiful horse is worth the attention of any 
man or woman. What shall we say of the well- 
matched pair of horses, harmonious in size and shape, 
color and action, side by side straining their great 
muscles in moving a heavy load over the pavement! 
I think I have discovered a great law — the law of the 
force of numbers — in equine matters, upon the nor- 
mal human beholder. If one horse excites a given 
amount of interest and pleasure, how great will be 
the effect upon the mind of teams of two or more 
horses? You will find that this is the law! The 
effect upon the human mind of varying teams of 
draught horses is as the square of the number of ani- 
mals. That is, a span of horses is not simply twice 
as beautiful and inspiring as one horse, but four 
times as much so (the square of two being four). 
When you harness three horses side by side, you will 
receive exactly nine times as much pleasure as when 
you gaze upon a single specimen of the genus Equus. 
If you should combine in one team before some tre- 
mendous load ten great animals, well matched in 
shape and size, and of the same or contrasting colors, 
according to the law stated, you would receive exactly 
one hundred times the pleasure that one such horse 
would give you. If you doubt it, try it and see. 

I saw a team the other morning I can see yet and 
shall for a long time, — three great, beautiful ani- 

46 



3X1 = 9 

mals harnessed abreast to the handsome wagon of a 
well-known business house. The two outer horses 
were light gray, almost white, and one between them 
pure black. Finely harnessed, plump, smooth and 
strong, they were pulling their heavy load easily 
and willingly. Really, the autos were not "in it." 
The beauty, the life, the straining muscles, the intelli- 
gent, liquid eyes, the arching necks, the firmly 
planted feet, the shapely legs, the flowing manes and 
tails, made a picture which belittle any machine man 
ever got together. I predict that in the year 3,000 
you will see, if you are here, horses, lots of them, on 
the city streets. 



47 



"HELLO" 

I remember once hearing Prof. Southwick, the 
famous elocutionist, tell a love story by simply 
repeating again and again the letters of the alphabet. 
He thus depicted the first meeting of the hero and 
heroine, the love at first sight of the former, the 
indifference of the latter gradually overcome by his 
wooing until an elopement was planned and executed, 
the overtaking of the unruly pair by the irate father, 
the stormy interview and happy reconciliation. All 
this was as plain as a spoken drama or a movie pic- 
ture and all done by the marvelous expressiveness of 
the human voice. I recall this because it illustrates 

my experience yesterday as I walked up S street 

and met a man whose dress proclaimed him a member 
of some Catholic brotherhood. He was clean-shaven 
and his face was kind, intelligent and intellectual. 
Just after he passed me I heard him utter a clear, 
clean-cut "Hello." Did you ever stop to think how 
many and how different emotions that word "Hello" 
is made to express? You have heard the "Hello" of 
indifference, the "Hello" of surprise, the "Hello" of 
cordiality, the "Hello" perhaps of contempt or even 
hate, or better the "Hello" of kindness or even love. 

Every feeling of the human soul toward another 
48 



"Hello" 

is hidden in those five letters and can be made as plain 
as day itself. The "Hello" I heard yesterday 
expressed surprise, cheerfulness, kindness, pleasure 
and love. It had in it the music of the soul 
itself. I turned as it was uttered, expecting to 
see a man, a friend of the speaker. To my surprise 
and instant joy I saw instead two little children, a 
boy of three or four and a girl of six, perhaps, on a 
doorstep across the street. The little fellow had 
some long leaves of some plant in each hand, and 
waved them joyfully to his kind friend. The man 
stopped and spoke some words I could not hear and 
went cheerily on his way, leaving two happy children 
and one happy man behind him. I somehow felt that 
this kind-hearted man had not a loving "Hello" for 
these two children merely, but for a score of others 
whom he might know. 

A "Hello" like his is as much and as clearly the 
index of the soul of the speaker as a radiant smile 
tells the story of a loving heart. In fact, one is the 
audible, the other the visible expression of the immor- 
tal spirit which we can never otherwise know. 



49 



THE MAN WITH THE BROKEN HEART 

There's a man whom I meet nearly every morning 
who appeals to my sympathy more than any other 
I have ever seen. He is perhaps thirty years old — 
of good physique — neatly dressed — in good flesh — 
and yet, as far as the expression of his face goes, 
his heart is broken. Do you remember how a little 
child looks who is on the very verge of bursting into 
tears? Its brows elevated — its forehead wrinkled — 
its mouth down at the corners? That is the way he 
looks. There is in his face no trace of hope or joy 
or comfort. All — all is lost. 

Driven by some cruel fate, he goes to his daily 
toil, wrapped in a shroud of grief. To him there are 
only leaden skies. No warm sunshine reaches his 
shivering spirit. Is he thinking of the past — the 
present or the future, or are these three a trinity of 
scourges who give his aching heart no surcease of 
pain ? If I was an artist I could put on canvas every 
line and feature of this unforgettable face. 

I see him coming toward me not only in the morn- 
ing, but often at other times as my thought reverts 
to him. Sometimes I see him indistinctly approach- 
ing me as I cross the city and resolve that I will not 
look at him as he passes. But the impulse to do so 

50 



The Man with the Broken Heart 

is irresistible. I simply cannot refrain from looking 
to see if some ray of hope has not lighted up his sad 
face, but it is always the same. Has he always looked 
so or has perhaps some tremendous disaster molded 
his features permanently into their present con- 
formation? I would willingly forego many a pleasure 
to see a smile on the face of this man with the broken 
heart. 

But the cheering thought has come to me, that 
perhaps after all, the real character and life of this 
man may utterly contradict the impression made by 
the lines of his physiognomy ; that is, may not nature, 
in one of her unaccountable freaks — have given him 
a cast of countenance — a combination of eyes and 
mouth and features generally — which at rest and 
irrespective of his mental state, tell the story of a 
grief which never existed? 

In other words, is it not possible for a man to look 
sad and feel jolly? Who knows but in his home our 
friend is the life of the household — laughing at the 
small and perhaps the larger trials of daily life — 
ready to make and enjoy a joke — radiating courage 
and good cheer even when apparently ready to weep ? 
Let us hope so. 



51 



HONEST BOYS 

I believe most boys are honest. I saw two severely 
tested the other day and the outcome in each case 
gave me a renewed confidence in human nature and 
a satisfaction which still lingers in my memory — and 
will for many a day. 

A fruit man was getting his wares in shape for the 
day's business. Accidentally his pile of oranges 
yielded to gravitation and half a dozen rolled upon 
the sidewalk. These he plainly saw. One, however, 
more adventurous, carried its explorations into the 
middle of the street. This one he didn't see. A 
boy just passing did see it and picked it up. It 
was a beauty. I watched him to see what would 
happen. 

He could easily have slipped it into his pocket and 
gone on his way and later served himself a luscious 
feast, and the fruiterer been none the wiser and only 
a little poorer. But the boy never hesitated a second. 
He hurried with the precious sphere to its owner who 
received it without, so far as I could see or hear, any 
expression of thanks except a slight nod of the head. 
But the boy went on his way with the consciousness 
— worth more than a box of oranges — that he had 
acted like a man. But, probably he thought not even 

52 



Honest Boys 

this much of his fine action, which he performed as 
naturally as he breathed. 

The other test came at night, when at the rush 
hour in front of the station I bought of a newsboy a 
copy of my favorite journal. I had no change and 
handed him a one-dollar bill. He felt in his pockets 
in vain for the necessary ninety-eight cents, and say- 
ing, "I'll get it changed," darted into the crowd, a 
big and solid mass of people, and was lost to view in 
an instant. 

The thought came to me, "What a fine chance to 
make some money easily ! That boy has only to put 
that bill in his pocket, keep a hundred feet away a few 
minutes and be just ninety-eight cents 'in'." I waited 
with great curiosity to see what he would do. I didn't 
have to wait long. In three minutes he came rushing 
back like a cyclone and handed me my change. I left 
him with a strengthened faith in humanity in general 
and in the integrity of the average boy in particular. 



53 



THE TRAFFIC COP 

I have seen many interesting sights in city streets, 
but none more fascinating than that at the junction 

of W and H streets, at 8 o'clock on the 

morning of July 18, the second day of the great 
strike. 

The streets were packed with flivvers, autos, trucks 
and teams going in four different directions. The 
sidewalks were packed with pedestrians going north, 
south, east and west. Without some intelligent, 
resourceful, trained supervision, in two minutes a 
blockade would have resulted, complicated, inextri- 
cable and exasperating. Did it? Not at all. All 
was as orderly as the wide streets of a country vil- 
lage. Why ? 

One man, with only two hands and arms to aid 
him, standing in the very vortex of the possible mael- 
strom, quietly, without excitement or nervousness or 
hesitation or delay, directed these opposing currents 
of traffic and turned impending chaos into ordinary 
on-going; two motions of those ever-moving hands 

and the vehicles in H street, moving both north 

and south, instantly halted, while proper signals to 
the W street traffic sent it on its way. Mean- 
while the pedestrians were not forgotten. At proper 

54 



The Traffic Cop 

intervals traffic was stopped while they went safely 
on their way. 

It was a great sight ! That man, like his brother 
policemen, in similar centres of traffic, was a master. 
Those quick, correct decisions, with never an error, 
fascinated me. Nobody was forgotten. Each 
received attention at the proper time. Not a second 
was wasted in hesitation. No motion of those tire- 
less arms lacked decision. Quick to see, quick to 
think, quick to act, he won my profound admiration. 



55 



PURE GOLD 

My morning walk across the city is, each day, a 
new adventure. I not only wonder if I shall meet 
one or more of my old friends, but I wonder how they 
will look. Will the happy pals be as joyous, the 
giant as debonair, the man with the broken heart as 
sad as usual? Will the dainty four-footed lady be 
in her accustomed place on the tessellated floor? And 
then there is the quest for new friends. 

It's like the gold-diggers' search for shining nug- 
gets. There is a plenty of pyrites, but each morning 
there is the certainty that I may light upon a yellow 
nugget of pure gold. And so I keep both eyes wide 
open as I make my way along the crowded sidewalk, 
and every now and then am rewarded by seeing a 
new face so rare and so interesting as to instantly 
record itself permanently upon my memory. 

Did you ever think what a marvelous thing a smile 
is? A little raising of the corners of the mouth, a 
little wrinkling under the eyes, a little elevation of 
the cheeks, an intangible, indescribable coming of a 
new radiance into the eyes themselves, and a stern, 
or sad, or stupid face is instantly transformed into a 
thing of beauty sending out a message of light, hope 
and joy. 

56 



Pure Gold 

Who has not seen a smile change even a repellent 
face, quicker than thought, into something so beauti- 
ful as to win the heart in a single second ? 

The other morning I saw a smile which I have 
recalled a score of times. I wish I could describe it. 
As I looked down the street I saw a man throwing 
small pieces of boards from the elevator out upon the 
sidewalk where a little woman and two little boys 
were eagerly assisting him and collecting the pieces 
into a little heap. 

The mother and the children were poorly but 
neatly dressed and were working excitedly as they 
gathered the precious fuel together. Their backs 
were toward me, but just as I passed them the mother 
turned and facing me gave to the little fellows a smile 
so beautiful that I shall never forget it. It was a 
smile of happiness, of sympathy, of gratitude, of 
hope, that made her face a radiant thing and swept 
my own heart with a wave of unexpected pleasure. 

It spoke so plainly of patient endurance of a hard 
lot, of deathless hope in the face of obstacles, of a 
keen sense of genuine gratitude for kindly help, of 
a great joy in unexpected treasure, of a passionate 
love for her little boys, of happiness in a humble 
home. 



57 



MR. MICAWBER 

There are some characters in fiction — great fiction 
— who seem to be immortal. They are so human, 
they touch the average man at so many points or so 
closely at one point, that, though they first existed 
only in the brain of the novelist, yet to our amaze- 
ment we run into them — living, breathing men — in 
our journeyings in the world. These observations 
are truer, perhaps, of Dickens's Mr. Micawber and 
Mr. Pickwick than of any others that come to mind. 
Who has not met these simple souls more than once 
and who has not been happier for the meeting. I'm 
led to these reflections from the fact that I have twice 
lately seen Mr. Micawber, face to face, in my morn- 
ing-journeys across the city. 

Dead long ago, if indeed, he ever lived at all — 
yet there he was to my amazement and joy coming 
toward me. It was dear, simple-minded, true-hearted 
Micawber himself (no "double" business), to all 
intents and purposes the original Micawber, just as 
we think of him in Dickens's favorite child of his brain 
— the matchless novel — David Copperfield. 

In the prime of life — complexion like a baby, cheeks 
like a Baldwin apple, coat too short and too small, 
a little hat two sizes too small, a great spreading 

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Mr. Micawber 

necktie, eyes bright as new dimes, bubbling over with 
optimism (he had just paid his last debt with a nice, 
fresh I. O. U., no doubt), a broad smile shining on 
his beaming face, a smile that took in all the world — 
he was sweeping jauntily along exactly as he did in 
his happy days in the immortal story. 

I wish I could meet him every morning. He left 
me feeling twenty years younger. I experienced a 
tingle of courage, hope and good cheer in every nerve. 
The sun somehow shone brighter than usual and 
everybody seemed like an old friend. Dear old 
Micawber, how often have we smiled at your childish 
optimism ! How often smiled even when for a moment 
despair unutterable overwhelmed your broken spirit ! 
How often rejoiced with you over returning hope. 
May the time never come when some simple, but loyal, 
soul somewhere shall not recall to men the story- 
teller's immortal Mr. Micawber. 



59 



ONE PEONY 

For many weeks I have been closely observing and 
studying the faces of the hundreds of people I meet 
each morning on my walk across the city. I have 
never noticed anybody studying mine, and concluded 
that students of humanity are scarce, or that I was 
a member of the colorless fraternity to which so 
many whom I meet belong. 

But this morning I was really embarrassed by the 
attention I excited. I caught scores of people look- 
ing at me with surprise and even admiration. And 
what do you suppose caused this unexpected change 
in the attitude of the public toward me? I will 
tell you. 

In my back-yard is a peony bush which bears the 
most gorgeous rose-colored blooms, monsters, six 
inches in diameter. It occurred to me that I would 
like one on my desk today, and so I cut the biggest 
and handsomest. Instead of wrapping it up and 
possibly crushing it, I decided to carry it uncovered 
in my hand. Well! that peony and myself as 
attached to it was the sole cause of my novel 
experience. 

It is very evident that the common run of humanity 
loves beauty, and it is to their credit. Young men 

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One Peony 

and old men, maidens and matrons, capitalists and 
laborers, by the score, looked with admiration and 
pleasure at my gorgeous flower. 

One lady at a candy counter dropped her work 
and gazed at me in wondering admiration. The 
young man in the market where I stopped to make a 
purchase expressed his delight as he commented on 
the size and beauty of nature's wonderful handiwork 
and recklessly offered me ten cents for my treasure. 
I really felt embarrassed before I'd got a quarter of 
the way on my journey. I tried to look absorbed in 
thought and failed. 

I tried to swing my prize nonchalantly, as though 
I lived in an acre field of splendid peonies, but felt 
that my deception was perfectly transparent. 'Twas 
only by sheer resolution that I was able to go on 
without becoming really ridiculous in my bearing 
and behavior. And, truly, it was a deep relief when 
I closed behind me the door to the stairway that 
leads to the office where I daily fight the monster, 
H. C. L. 



61 



